


The Return (That Charles Was Totally Not Hoping For)

by KatiaSwift



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles is a Drama Queen, Charles is a Tease, Crack, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Erik has Feelings, Erik has Issues, Erik is a Stalker, It came from my brain, M/M, Remix, X-Men Remix 2014, oh boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatiaSwift/pseuds/KatiaSwift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post DOFP, Erik comes back to Westchester to try his hand at reconciliation with Charles. Charles is less than pleased. At first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return (That Charles Was Totally Not Hoping For)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourgirlfriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourgirlfriday/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Coming Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735430) by [ourgirlfriday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourgirlfriday/pseuds/ourgirlfriday). 



> This was my (delightfully) terrible, cracky attempt at remixing a hysterical, cracky fic. So much love to ourgirlfriday for the original's existence!
> 
> Huge, huge thanks to my beta and darling, [name redacted (for now)], for prodding me to do this, offering suggestions about where to go with it, and editing it to make it actually funny in the parts where I originally failed to deliver. In the paraphrased words of Tony Stark, I am giving her 12% credit for her troubles.
> 
> Also, on another note, I very much love AO3's Erik tags.

Charles Xavier sits in his study, a frown on his face and a cup of tea in his hands. It’s not turning out to be a good day, not at all. He can feel it in his bones. Or, rather, not feel it. Thanks again for that one, Erik.

He thought he’d told Erik to go away. In fact, he’d been impressively clear, when they’d talked. After Erik had, you know, dropped a stadium on him. What an asshole. He scowls into the mirror, rehearsing, not for the first time that morning, his best death glare.

“I, uh… Professor?”

Charles looks up from his very important angsty pouting as Hank’s blue, furry head pops through the door. “What is it, Hank?”

Hank coughs uncomfortably and shifts as though he’d really like to flee the mansion grounds altogether, sensing Charles’ mood. “I, uh… it’s him. Um. Erik. He’s here.”

Charles wonders, in the back of his mind, if Erik has gone completely insane in the three days since they last spoke. Not that Erik was entirely sane in the first place, but that was completely beside the point. He sighs, a long-suffering breath of air that’s become all too familiar these past few years, ever since Erik had nearly drowned his way into Charles’ life and most certainly not his heart. Not at all.

And then he can feel Erik’s mind, smug and giddy and most definitely at least slightly unhinged. Charles swears that if it were possible, Erik’s mind would be jumping up and down like a five year old child when promised ice cream. That was remarkably what it felt like, and Charles congratulated himself inwardly for the excellent comparison.

Hank shifts nervously, waiting. “Um, Professor?”

Charles sighs again, louder. “Oh, fine. He bloody well does as he wants anyway, and I’d rather not have him break any windows.” Erik’s persistence can only be compared to that time the cellar flooded and the water just kept coming in, despite the sheer amount of sandbags Hank had laid down.

Hank leaves the room, his furry feet making a swish, swish sound on the carpet. Charles’ eyebrow twitches, of its own accord. He stares in the mirror at his hypnotically twitching eyebrow and wishes for a good bottle of hard liquor.

When said bottle doesn’t appear, he scowls at the mirror again. It is most definitely not a good day. If only his mutation was the ability to make bottles of scotch rain from the sky. That would be bloody fantastic. He reaches out with his mind, and - oh. Yep. There he is. Erik’s mind is boiling over with unhinged, slightly creepy passion, burning like the molten metal that he’s so very fond of. Except, of course, with much more of an inclination to levitate up to one’s bedroom window and peer in while one sleeps. Charles suppresses a shudder at the thought, and vows to keep his curtains drawn at night.

Only moments later, Erik is walking - no, no, he’s levitating just off the carpet, the arrogant show-off - into the room, utter delight on his face as he gazes at Charles with That Look in his eyes. The crazed, maniacal one that makes Charles seriously consider if the other man is a vampire and out for his blood.

Charles runs a hand over his face. “Oh, bugger me,” he says, conversationally. “What the sodding hell are you doing here??”

Erik sits, leaning towards Charles and smiling that sharky smile that sends an unconscious shiver through him. Damn it all to hell, Erik can still do that to him, even after all those years. Even after bullets and stadiums.

“Hello, Charles.” Erik breathes. “I’ve missed you.” Charles realizes how close their hands are, just a second too late to pull away as Erik’s hand closes around his. He’s not sure what disturbs him more - the fact that he can’t pull back, or the fact that he doesn’t want to. Oh, bloody hell.

Charles narrows his eyes. He can’t believe this. Is Erik really that delusional? To just walk in and think that everything... that it’s all okay? That he’s forgiven?

...oh. He does think that. He really is that delusional.

Charles raises his still-twitching eyebrow. He hopes the look on his face is truly scathing. “Okay, did you actually forget that the last time we met, you tried to kill my sister, tried to assassinate a president on live television, nearly killed my only friend, and dropped a stadium on me?”

Erik fucking pouts. “But Charles,” he says, a hint of a whine bleeding into his words and a goddamn pout coming over his face, “I only dropped a little bit of a stadium on you.” He tilts his head, eyes wide and pleading. “Besides, you haven’t answered my question yet.”

Charles bites his lip, hard, and grits his teeth. His nails dig into Erik’s palm. He scowls, that perfect-mirror scowl that he’s spent so long perfecting, and aims it at Erik. “What bloody question??”

“I thought it was obvious.” Erik says, tone somewhere between warm and smug. “The stadium was a giant ring, after all. And killing Nixon was my present to you.” Ah, yes, there’s no mistaking it now. That smirk, that grin. Erik is proud of himself. Oh, he’s never going to hear the end of it. This was a mistake. Letting Erik inside was a mistake. Not turning him over to the authorities in DC was a bigger mistake. That entire day had been one huge mistake.  And worse, the Erik-centric mistakes don’t seem likely to end anytime soon. Charles wonders exactly where he’s gone wrong.

He stops thinking for a split second as another thought blindsides him like a freight train. Giant ring? What would Erik of all people need a giant ring for?

“What are you even talking about? Are you high? Is this some sort of post-jail PTSD? It is, isn’t it?”

Erik puffs out his chest and grins like the cat that got the canary, eyes lighting up as though Charles has just confessed his undying love. (Charles hasn’t. He knows he hasn’t.) “Obviously,” he says, as if it really is obvious (it isn’t), “I asked you to marry me.” His smile widens and Charles can’t decide if it’s outright creepy, a little unnerving, or... adorable. No. Certainly not adorable. Perish the thought! But Erik continues, a wistful haze filling his eyes, “I thought we could kill the humans at the White House and then use the bunker as a floating honeymoon suite. The humans would clearly capitulate after my impressive show of power, and you, as my stunning mutant consort, would bask in their love and adoration. I told you we wanted the same things.” He finishes his speech with a pleased murmur. As if he’s sold his point. What a flair for the dramatic. Charles rolls his eyes.

Charles’ lip twitches. He can’t believe this. “I want you to shut up right about now, but you’ve never been quite keen on that,” he mutters.

Erik sighs, his lips quirking downward. “Is this about shooting your sister? I said I was sorry.”

“No you didn’t.” Charles scoffs, rolling his eyes, “You made a speech about the greater good!”

Erik waves his hand, dismissively. “Like I said, I said I was sorry.” He rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Charles. You need to learn to forgive and move on.”

Charles is livid. His eyebrow starts up again, twitching of its own accord at a truly terrifying speed. “You tried to kill the president. You. You were in jail. For ten years. For assassinating Kennedy.” His face reddens.

Erik tilts his head to one side like a confused puppy and it is not the cutest thing Charles has ever seen, definitely not. “I told you I had nothing to do with that.”

“It still looks very bad, Erik. Very very bad!” He shouts the words, loudly and dramatically while waving his hands around. Much like Erik does when he gets over-excited, now that he thinks about it. Oh no. No way. He is not turning into Erik. There is just no bloody way.

Erik shrugs. “It was just Nixon, Charles. Everyone hates Nixon, except possibly Agnew. And you can’t trust anyone named Spiro.” As if that was just the end of that.  As if that justified what he had done. As if he had forgotten that he had dropped a stadium on Charles and nearly started another world war. Who just drops a stadium like that on someone and then asks that person to marry them?

A deep breath and a mental count of ten are the only things standing between Charles’ hands and Erik’s throat. Especially when Erik leans closer, his stupidly beautiful eyelashes fluttering like bloody butterflies, and brings a hand up to cup Charles’ cheek. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he whispers softly.

Charles’ brain shorts out. He can’t breathe. Erik is such a bloody cheater. This isn’t fair at all. He knows how Charles feels about soft words and gentle touches. Even as he mentally curses Erik’s hold over him, he sees a flicker of doubt in the other man’s eyes for the first time since Erik had sauntered into the room as though he owned it. Erik’s lower lip begins to quiver. Is that... a tear in the corner of his eye? Oh, fuck, it is. Damn it all to hell.

Charles sighs. “Oi. I’m still pissed, Erik. You can’t just leave someone on a beach, let them think you’ve assassinated a president, try to kill their sister, try to assassinate another president, drop a stadium on them, then waltz into their house and ask them to marry you.”

Erik goes into full-on pout mode, complete with those fucking puppy dog eyes that gaze up at him as though he’s the one that holds Erik’s entire, fragile capacity for happiness in his hands. Damn him! Charles clears his throat. “You need to work for this.”

Those stupidly beautiful eyes light up like the fireworks on Independence Day. Oh, bloody fucking hell. “You need to prove that you’re serious about this, you know.”

Erik beams. “Anything.”

Charles holds up his hand and smirks. It’s on his side now. “First off, no flinging metal at me all willy-nilly.” He ponders, absently, whether to extend that rule to include no flinging metal at all, but there are plenty of good things that can be done in that regard. Ah, yes, plenty of good things. His smile widens.

“Done,” Erik promises quickly.

“Second, no more shooting family.” Charles stops, mid-sentence. Ah, but that won’t do at all. “Unless they really deserve it,” he amends.

“Of course.”

“Third, no more trying to assassinate presidents.”

Erik’s eyes go comically wide and his expression goes from calm to confused to indignant, and then back to pouty in the span of about two seconds before he whines, “But Chaaaarles…” The man looks seconds from bursting into tears. Of course, this was the term that Erik would protest; Charles takes the time to briefly rethink his life choices, because clearly he went wrong somewhere. Why else would fate be tormenting him with someone as beautiful and intelligent as Erik, yet give him a persistent psychopathic streak. And an apparent obsession with killing presidents.

“I mean it.” Charles says firmly.

Erik sighs dramatically. “Fiiiiiiiiine,” he whines.

Charles grins widely and leans forward, caressing Erik’s cheek teasingly. He can afford to throw his weight around in this regard now; Erik deserves every little bit of what he’s about to get. “Oh, my dear,” he breathes, “I know I can make it worth your while.”

Erik gulps, audibly.

 

Three floors up, Hank McCoy pours himself a glass of scotch and settles in with a book and a pair of earplugs. He hesitates a moment, then reaches for the horribly gaudy magenta helmet sitting on the table in front of him. Because really, there are just some things he’s better off not knowing.

 


End file.
